


Proud

by nobelbandit



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Authority Figures, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harmful Self-Medication, Historical Lams, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Mania, POV - Third Person, Parental Abuse, Personality Disorder, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Tendencies, Unresolved Emotional Tension, character injury, manic depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-04 22:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14030658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobelbandit/pseuds/nobelbandit
Summary: John Laurens forgets he is real.Alexander Hamilton reminds him.He exists for the both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will update, as will the tags. It won't end pretty. Story is centered around the mental state of John Laurens. Not historically accurate.

_“Make me proud,” his Mother had said. Sweet and gentle, letting go of his small, chubby hands and taking a step back to watch her son take his first wobbly steps in the garden. Her smile brilliant and as bright as the sun in the sky when he succeeded without falling on the grass._

***

He stares at it until his eyes burn, until Lafayette elbows him and gives him a brief scolding for putting his _beaux yeux_ through such torture by gazing directly into the sun. He is being his caring self, and yet Laurens feels the rebuke sing through his veins, reaching his brain in a way Lafayette never intended for it to come across, like knives and hatred, and Laurens can feel his skin itch for the pain he feels he now deserves and therefore craves. 

When he returns back to his quarters late at night, he removes his kit with urgency, rips the ribbon keeping his hair together off, and ties it around his wrist instead. Hamilton could enter any second. _Anyone_ could. But Laurens keeps his mind focused on the hard wall, his eyes on the way his fists collide with it repeatedly. His legs move beneath him, make him jump up and down a few times, before he crashes his fist back into the wall with an intensity that makes him hiss in pain that is so sharp that it almost, _almost_ feels like pleasure. 

Hamilton walks in ten minutes later. Laurens is already buried under the blankets, tears threatening to spill, facing away from his friend. He feels real now. The pain isn’t fun anymore. He tries to focus on something else. The howling of the wind. Boots on the creaking, wooden floor. The dip of the mattress and the pressure of a small, familiar body curling against his own. A chilly nose nuzzling between his shoulder blades. It helps. Hamilton makes him feel real just by existing into his miserable, pathetic and worthless life. Laurens isn’t a nobody around him. Not invisible or forgotten behind the uniform he wears for his country.

Hamilton gives him a purpose he’s always craved. 

Hamilton makes him feel useful in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for parental abuse, emotional and physical. Heed the tags!

_“Make me proud,” his Father had hissed, and his nails dug into John’s thin wrist as if he were trying to inject his order into his son’s bloodstream. John glared with the intensity of a summer moon, refusing to show his defeat and his pain to this man who claimed to love and care for him._

_“Understood?” he asked lowly, always wanting to hear it. Always._

_“Understood, Father,” he growled back, wrenching his arm out of the man’s iron grip and shoving him, again, and again, and again, and again. He was so upset and angry. Worthless and small. Adrenaline burned through his bones, and he didn’t feel real, he didn’t. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand shit, and he couldn’t stop—_

_A hand on his neck caught him off guard and pushed him until his back collided with a wall he hadn’t even realized was there. His throat worked underneath his Father’s fingers, and maybe it was the power he got from it, or the reminder of how much strength he now had, but John felt those fingers tighten around his slim neck and block his airway. The lack of oxygen reminded him that it was all real, that he was real and his Father was real and his lungs were real._

_His Father let him go. Reminded John it hurt him the most, that he was only doing it because he cares and wants what’s best. Told him he had no choice as he embraced him before walking away from him. His failure of a son._

_John knew he deserved it. Deserves it, still._

***

Washington enters the tent Laurens is suffering in with Lafayette, both injured and both peering up at their commander with large, dark and regretful eyes. They both knew they were being too reckless on the field and have only themselves to thank for their current states. Laurens even has half a mind to stand up out of respect for His Excellency, but Washington is giving him such a dark, heavy look that feels like lead and traps him in place on his cot. Panic lodges in his throat, knowing it was a look of disappointment and disapproval, but he tells himself that Lafayette is here as well and is receiving the same silent treatment. 

“You two are not to leave your quarters until you are fully recovered,” he says, somber and tired. His eyes flick from Lafayette to Laurens and back. “I will have one of the boys fetch you something to eat.” And with that, he turns and leaves. John lets out a shaky breath, Lafayette mutters something he doesn’t quite catch. 

John could’ve sworn he saw worry in Washington’s eyes when they were on Lafayette’s, and hatred when they reached his own. He could have _sworn_. He moves his injured shoulder until it sends sparks and jolts of pain throughout his whole body, and reminds himself that this is simply the punishment he deserves but his commander decided not to give him this time. 

Hamilton slips through the flap of the tent an hour or so later, holding a tray with food. Lafayette sleeps soundly, but Laurens perks up and winces only slightly at the pain it causes. Hamilton shakes his head, but he is fond in his disapproval, like he knows it’s just the _John Laurens_ way of coming out of a battle. He does not judge. He worries, but he does not judge. He sits on the edge of the bed and feeds him little bits of bread, chatters on and on about a million different subjects, scratches at John’s scalp absentmindedly as if to soothe him. It helps.

The pain in his shoulder isn’t fun anymore. He wants to be gentled and taken care of, and Hamilton seems to know what he needs without being asked, so Laurens takes something without asking.

The sigh Hamilton exhales into his mouth feels like the first proper breath of air in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, keep a watch for updates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self-harm and suicidal thoughts. Pretty heavy. Heed the tags!
> 
> The pace of this chapter purposefully goes up to match Laurens' thoughts. It's purposefully vague or overly explicit to match that chaos in his mind.
> 
> Translations at the bottom.

_Make me proud_ rings through his ears and holds him in a chokehold so tight it makes his head spin. He tries - oh, he _tries_ to wash it down with beer that feels sticky on his lips, tries to zone out on loud chatter and bar-talk and Tench Tilghman’s ridiculous barks of laughter, but it doesn’t work. He downs his drink in one go and falls from his stool and gets laughed at by all of his friends, and he deserves it, oh, he fucking deserves it.

Lafayette snorts and hoists him up on his feet, holds him upright by wrapping his arms around him and pressing him against his chest. It feels good, but Laurens’ expectations go up at once and he suddenly wants so much more than just an embrace from a handsome friend. He’d walk through Hell barefooted just for a bit of affection. 

“Mon cher ami, je pense que t'as bu assez pour une soirée, non? Tu veux que je t'apporte à vos quartiers maint’nant?” 

Laurens hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head and pushes at his friend’s chest to get away. He refuses to look at Lafayette’s droopy, worried eyes. 

“T’es sûr? Je doute que notre petit lion est déjà là,” he tries again, and Laurens bites his lip into his mouth until he tastes blood and squirms like a frustrated child in his friend’s arms. He loves Lafayette, but he needs to let him go. This pub feels like it is going to swallow him whole any second now, and he wants to _go_. 

“ _Lâche-moi_ ,” John slurs. He sounds wrecked, his accent is thick.

Lafayette lets him go. 

 

Laurens stumbles out of the place and back to camp in a haze, sneaks into empty headquarters and reaches for the first quill he can find. There is no hesitation in his mind as he removes his jacket and lifts his sleeve, scratches the pointy edge of the quill repeatedly over his wrist in the hopes of seeing the damage on his skin in blood rather than in ink.

Anger and desperation flood his senses when he realizes he can barely feel the pain anymore, that the pathetic thing isn’t sharp enough to do any real damage. He’s so _numb_ and drifting away, he feels too big for his skin. He breaks the quill in his fist and hears it snap in half, imagining what Hamilton’s reaction would be to that, probably some sort of mock version of a heart attack, followed by so much laughter and giggling and joy—

He sobs and tears at his hair, kicks against the wall, tries to slap himself a few times until he _feels_ something that satisfies him enough to get him to stop, but it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t work. He wants to fuck, or maybe run until he collapses and passes out, or pick a fight with someone taller, stronger, better than him. He wants to feel the pain he knows he deserves. He wants to claim or be claimed and bask in sin until his heart stops.

The misery goes on and on and on. Laurens dashes around headquarters like a trapped animal in a cage, sampling every single thing he spots that could possibly bring him the relief he craves. He tries to bang his head against the wall a few times, scratches his arms raw. Stuffs his wrist into his mouth and bites down so hard it leaves crescent-shaped marks. Sobs, and sobs, and sobs, thinks about ropes and daggers and poisoned bowls and unholy desires and the filth under his skin.

Laurens is still sobbing and kicking at things like a child when Hamilton enters the room with a bewildered look on his face — _always working late, that man_ — eyes wide with confusion and something akin to relief. He was most likely expecting to see an intruder rather than his closest friend having a meltdown at this hour. 

Hamilton quietly approaches him. Laurens doesn’t even see him do it, only feels it when gentle, small hands push down on his shoulders and make him take a seat on one of the chairs in the room. Neither of them says anything, but he feels Hamilton’s warm, calloused hand move from his shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing tightly, repeatedly, his thumb brushing gently over his skin. Laurens’ head lolls forward and he feels loose and strung out and Hamilton smiles like he _knows_ he’s got some sort of Midas touch in his hands. 

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good boy.”

Laurens whines and shudders, tosses his head from left to right in denial. He’s so fucking _bad_ , he’s not good at all, and he opens his mouth to say so, but Hamilton shushes him and squeezes just a bit harder at the nape of his neck. He’s pulling John back down from the ceiling, tucking his soul back into his body with a gentleness only he possesses, and the way his vision spins and his body feels numb isn’t fun anymore. He leans forward until he collapses against his friend’s chest and cries himself hoarse, begs him not to tell a soul, not to tell his Father or _worse_ , His Excellency. 

He’s better than this, he says, he just drank one too many, he says, it won’t happen again, he says. Hamilton nods and reassures him. I know, he says, you just had a bit too much, he says. Curls an arm around his waist and supports Laurens out of the door and back to their own quarters, dumps him on the bed they share and undresses him with ink-stained, nimble fingers and does the same for himself.

“Lay on my chest,” Hamilton whispers, “listen to my beating heart.”

Laurens complies. He tries to copy Alexander in the way he breathes and the way his heart beats, and wishes Hamilton could exist for the both of them somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am bilingual, hence why I might write some parts in French. I have the translations covered for you, though! 
> 
> “Mon cher ami, je pense que t'as bu assez pour une soirée, non? Tu veux que je t'apporte à vos quartiers maint’nant?”: _My dear friend, I think you've had enough for one night, no? Do you want me to bring you back to your quarters now?_
> 
> “T’es sûr? Je doute que notre petit lion est déjà là,”: _Are you sure? I doubt our little lion is already there._
> 
> "Lâche-moi,": _Let me go._
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self-worth issues (a bit of power imbalance.)

_“Make me proud,” Washington had growled, the previous loss against the British still fresh on his mind, his frustration evident in his stern expression and clenched jaw. He looked dangerous and angry -- eyes dark and piercing. Laurens’ felt himself tense when Washington’s gaze fell on him, scrutinizing him from head to toe. “No more reckless behavior. Next time, you focus. Am I understood?”_

_A few young men muttered a half-hearted “Yes, Sir,” but the General was having none of it and glared harder at all of his recruits. At all of his recruits and John Laurens, who knew the General’s anger was mostly directed at him. He’d fucked up. Had to play musket ball-magnet again. Fucked up so badly for His Excellency. Such a failure. Such a foolish little boy, he’d been in a world of powerful men, thinking he could change the rules._

_“What was that?” Washington barked._

_Everyone yelled it this time, loud and clear. “Yes, Sir!”_

_Laurens squeezed his eyes shut and wished Washington would just hit him already._

_God knows he deserves it._

***

General Washington never hits him, but Laurens imagines it so often that he sometimes feels like it _did_ happen at some point. He sees it so clearly—

Standing up for his cause, his black regimen, arguing with His Excellency to prove he can do so much more, if only he’d _listen_. Washington losing his temper and ordering him to _kneel, boy_. Laurens disobeying the command and shoving him like he’d shoved his Father all those years ago. Washington hitting him so hard that the impact of it wakes him up again and puts him back in line. Laurens’ lip trembling as he mutters out an apology and scuttles out of the room, chastised,

—but it never actually happened, and it never will. Washington will never admit it, but he sees some of his aides as his own sons, and he is not a man like Henry Laurens. Laurens knows he is simply projecting his Father onto his commander, but those lines, too, always seem to blur. That intense urge to impress is ever so present, no matter who’s in charge. He wonders what would happen if he tried to impress only himself for a change, but the outcome is always dying like a martyr, dying, dying, dying for a change. 

The rest of the day is a blur and the hours bleed together until the sun goes down. Laurens drafts a few letters and leaves headquarters early with Hamilton, but as soon as the door of their private quarters closes behind them, Laurens breaks. He’s cursing and shaking his head, and turns to Hamilton and looks at him pleadingly, wanting his younger friend naked and begging beneath him, wanting to spend all of his time breathing life and love and heart into that man, but he doesn’t fucking deserve to.

Maybe, _maybe_ he can get his friend to put him back in line.

Hamilton must notice something pass over his face, because he looks worried and upset, and tries to reach out but Laurens slaps his hand away and grits his teeth in warning, and Hamilton … smiles. 

_Smiles._

“And you dare call me a lion,” he teases. 

Laurens opens his mouth to argue, but Hamilton stalks forward, and he has no choice but to take steps back to get away. He startles when his back hits the wall behind him, and Hamilton presses his little body against him and traps him in place. He's short, but he can be intimidating when he wishes to be.

“Captured a feisty Lieutenant Colonel,” he whispers into Laurens' ear, standing on his toes to reach it. Reminding Laurens gently, so gently who he is. What he is. How worthy he is. “Such a prize. The most passionate boy in Washington’s army,” he continues, wrapping his arms around Laurens and holding him tightly, looking up at him with a warm, easy smile. A playful little glint in his dark eyes.

“Does he want a reward for all his effort and courage?” 

Laurens' hands and body shake so hard and he suddenly realizes he doesn’t want punishments and slaps from a firm, heavy hand. He wants rewards and praise for the good he’s done and keeps trying to do, and Hamilton, _bless him_ , Hamilton knows. Knows what he needs and indulges, over and over again.

He croaks a silent, hoarse “ _Yes_ ,” and lets Hamilton guide him to their bed.

He knows he deserves a ticket to Hell for being intimate with another man, but all he can think about is how there cannot be a Heaven sweeter than Alexander Hamilton's touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be the final one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greene told him no, but Laurens is packing up his things anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for major character death, self-harm, suicidal tendencies and just plain heartbreak. Heed the tags!

_“Make me proud,” Hamilton had whispered into his skin, on their last night together before parting. “Your plans will work.” His chapped lips felt addictive against his own, his kisses poisonous and lingering on Laurens’ cold skin. He could barely focus - the thoughts of being a second, a disgrace, less loved, messed with his mind. His body went stiff, and Hamilton ceased showering him with kisses to peer into his eyes._

_“You are spiraling, dear one,” he whispered. A thumb brushed over his cheek. “Stay with me.”_

_“I’m trying,” Laurens hissed, sharper than intended. Hamilton took no offense. Kept looking right into his eyes. A puzzling look on his handsome face._

_“My dear Laurens,” he started, “do you still doubt the love I keep in my heart, just for you? Do you still not see how much I ache to be with you at all times?”_

_Hamilton sounded sincere enough, but Laurens had a hard time believing anyone could love him, let alone a married man with a perfect wife. No one could ever put him first._

_Still. He nodded. Lied as he usually did. Let Hamilton go back to his gentle kisses and ministrations. Spread his legs and tilted his head back and arched his back. Sighed quietly when Hamilton put his clever mouth to work._

_One last time._

Without Hamilton, nothing’s the same. His letters are beautifully composed and witty as ever, and he writes like a madman, but Laurens struggles to reply, and gives up on it altogether after failing time and again with finding the right words. His mind taunts him and Hamilton haunts him. He thinks about daggers, ropes and poisoned bowls, and wishes he could just turn into void and stop thinking about him, him, him. Smiling with Eliza. Happy with Eliza. In love with Eliza. Her. Her. Her. 

He knows the letters Hamilton wrote to him are meaningless compared to the poetry he undoubtedly writes his Eliza. He knows the sweet words burned into his skin mean nothing now that Hamilton has someone else to wrap around his finger. Eliza is a picture of perfection. Laurens is filth, fit to lay six feet under, surrounded by bones and insects, dirt and mud and death. Eliza is flowers and sunlight and butterflies growing on top of his grave. A pretty cover-up for a painful truth; every man kills the thing he loves, sooner or later. 

Laurens struggles more than ever. A dark cloud hangs around his head wherever he goes; twists everything around in his mind. He’s a prisoner of his own mind. 

In a sea of chaos, Hamilton was Moses offering him a path forward. Without him, he drowns. 

 

_“I’ll make you proud,” Laurens had sobbed into his little brother’s curls, clutching him tightly to his chest, wishing he could take away his pain, stop the sobs from wracking his little body. James didn’t deserve it, he didn’t fucking deserve it — not his little Jemmy, his silly brother, his little angel, dying in his arms because he couldn’t keep him safe. Couldn’t keep him safe._

There is pulp at the bottom of his pint. The men on the stools next to him mock the grimace on his face as he downs it. Later, they laugh when they overpower a furious Laurens and tackle him to the ground. They reward him with a split lip and dark bruises all over his body. _Good._

Later at night, when he lies in bed and he feels his mind wandering, he bites his lip until he tastes copper, and presses fingertips against his ribs until the pain isn’t fun anymore.

He creates a new routine. He dedicates time each day seeking out the pain he knows deserves.

_“I’ll make you proud,” Laurens had spat to his reflection in the mirror, slurred. His face was pale and drenched in sweat, his entire body shook. A vicious fever had taken over his body, and apparently this meant fighting a war was out of the question for him. Still. He was not going to be stopped. He wrote to Greene, “If you refuse my offer to join this fight, I will still volunteer and join it anyway,” and that was that. He was going. And if he died, if he died—_

_He punched the mirror with his bare fist, sliced shards of glass through his skin and cried until he ran out of tears. Longed for Hamilton. Tore at his hair, threw himself on the hard, unforgiving floor and rammed his head into the wood, wheezed, wrapped his hands around his own throat and squeezed so hard, he could hear his ears ring and feel his face burn up unpleasantly. His eyes squeezed shut. His throat felt sore and swollen, his nose stuffed, his eyes puffy. He felt raw. Hot. Numb. Sick. His stomach turned and he retched, threw up on the floor. He moaned in discomfort. Closed his eyes. Just for a second._

_The world went dark._

Greene told him no, but Laurens is packing up his things anyway. He puts on his uniform and climbs on his horse, feverish and deluded. He gathers his men, a colorful mix, a small group of men from all over the world. He barks orders and feels proud of himself. He is leading. He is in charge. Covered in bruises, shivering with sickness, determined. His mind is made up. 

John Laurens does not intend to come out of this war alive.

He’ll make them all so, so _proud._

_Peace made, My Dear friend, a new scene opens. The object then will be to make our independence a blessing. To do this we must secure our union on solid foundations; an herculean task and to effect which mountains of prejudice must be leveled!_

He’s outnumbered by British dogs. Redcoats. He lifts his sword, commands his men to attack anyway. 

_It requires all the virtue and all the abilities of the country. Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress._

Two of his men retreat. Cowards, _cowards_. Laurens feels a tear fall from his eye as he gives his horse a kick. _Faster, faster_. 

_We know each others sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy ...._

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to picture what was once his. A sweet, sweet dream. 

_Yrs for ever_

A musket goes off. Something lodges in his chest. He gasps. A violent shudders goes through his body. He rolls off his horse into the grass. Green, green grass. First steps in the grass. Last breaths in the grass. 

“ _Alexander Hamilton_ ,” he wheezes, tries to recall his friend, his lover, his, his, his —

 _Please._ It isn’t fun anymore.

He dies on a broiling Tuesday afternoon and his last kiss is that of the sun on his skin.

His body is plucked clean from everything valuable. Someone closes his eyes for him, lays him with the flowers.

_Thank you for your service. You’ve done your country proud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. An epilogue might be on its way! I hope you spotted Hamilton's last letter to Laurens in this. The one he never received. 
> 
> Kudos and comments breathe life into me.


End file.
